


Hold Tight

by fourfreedoms



Series: Every Reason For Letting You Go [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Consensual Somnophilia, Depression, Established Relationship, Fighting, M/M, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 00:58:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9943148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourfreedoms/pseuds/fourfreedoms
Summary: “You can’t promise that,” Patrick had told him.“I can,” Jonny replied in that voice that somehow got them all leaping over the boards in triple overtime, giving it their all.It's not always easy, sometimes Patrick needs a little help.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written off the following time stamp prompt I got from an anon:
> 
> "you help me lose my mind timestamp, pls! maybe present day. hat kink forever and always."
> 
> There are three other fics set in this universe. If you want to read them in order, you can, but it's also probably not necessary:
> 
> 1\. [Prequel, Patrick's POV - 2011-2012 Hockey Season](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3491390/chapters/7670645)  
> 2\. [You Help Me Lose My Mind, Jonny's POV - 2012-2013 lockout shortened season](http://archiveofourown.org/works/857243)  
> 3\. [Sequel I, Jonny's POV - 2013 Cup Win](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3491390/chapters/22255580)
> 
> And now this one, Sequel II. It takes place four years later, this season, after that horrible drubbing the Hawks received back in January. 
> 
> This entire series has always dealt with depression, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and in this latest one anti-depressant use, please don't read if that will be at all triggering for you.

Patrick used to self-medicate a lot. He’d been so messed up about Jonny, and all the purpose and the fire that had driven him in his career was also turning into his greatest enemy. It got so easily tangled up in ‘nothing is ever enough.’ He’d struggled a lot. After his 2012 incident he’d found help. Something had to give. The anti-depressants had been meant as a short term solution. Eventually he was going to have to move on from Jonny, and he couldn’t live off pills for the rest of his life. But they’d kept him even, filled in the deepest holes inside himself so he couldn’t fall into them, and then when he’d got together with Jonny, that had done the rest. He’d worried in the beginning. That Jonny would find out about it and be disappointed in him. He’d kept the bottles hidden in his medicine cabinet. 

Jonny had found out, because he was a snoop, and because his EQ was too damn high. That’d been their first fight as a couple—not Jonny judging him for the pills, but for failing to tell him. Patrick had cried. That was the hardest part. He’d covered his face in the middle of his argument, and couldn’t hold back the tears. 

Jonny had wrapped himself around him, let him cry it out into his shirt. Afterwards, he’d framed Patrick’s face in his hands and said fiercely, “Nothing you could ever do would make me stop loving you.” 

“You can’t promise that,” Patrick had told him. 

“I can,” Jonny replied in that voice that somehow got them all leaping over the boards in triple overtime, giving it their all. 

Obviously, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and Patrick wasn’t put back together again in a night either. He’s a work in progress. But he’d never really questioned that statement after that. They’d been fucking for six years, together for going on four. 

And maybe it was crazy, but somewhere in the last few months, Patrick began to feel like he was losing him.

* 

It’s tough watching Jonny grimace through post-game after post-game, repeating to reporters that he still believes he’s a forward (not even a question), just needs to find that touch again (he will), and work hard to stay positive (he’s giving it his all). He’s been doing his best with the left-wing rookie assembly line they handed him. 

Patrick’s still pissed that playing together again back in October wasn’t what broke Jonny’s out of his funk—he felt almost betrayed by it. He’s been with Jonny for what feels like a lifetime. Nobody knows him better than Patrick does, inside and out, and if anybody should’ve been able to dig Jonny out, it was him. It hadn't worked out that way. The scary thing, Patrick’s realized over the years, is how much Jonny can hide behind a smile and a ‘just staying positive’ speech. They both play their cards too close to the vest, but there are times too when Jonny seems to think he’s not worthy or allowed his own emotions. The fears, the anger, the hurt—sometimes Patrick can’t reach him at all. 

At this point, Patrick doesn’t know if it’s unhappiness fueling the subpar scoring or the subpar scoring fueling the unhappiness. And now his own scoring is taking a nosedive, in some sort of sympathetic symbiosis. The night they get hammered by Washington, he watches Jonny speak to reporters, and for the first time, it feels like the mask is gone; the Jonny that listlessly answers questions, face devoid of all of it’s usual animation, scares the shit out of Patrick. 

Jonny’s like that the entire way home, answering monosyllabically for everything that Patrick asks, barely meeting his eyes. And when they’re back at their stupid fully-furnished rental while they wait for their fucking multimillion dollar condo to be built out, the one they bought into together, he just breaks. 

He asks Jonny what he wants to eat, because with Jonny’s blood sugar, he _has_ to eat. And Jonny lets out a sigh and closes his eyes, like he just can’t even deal with Patrick right now. It’s a stupid thing, really. Unhappiness does that. Makes you into a monster even to the ones that love you. And this time it isn’t even his unhappiness, but Jonny’s. Patrick hates himself even as he’s opening his mouth. 

“Jesus christ, Jon,” Patrick blurts out. “I’m trying to be helpful.” 

Jonny lets out a short huff of air. “Can you just…” he shakes his head. “Not?” Before Patrick can even reply, he says, “I really don’t need this right now.” 

No, Patrick thinks, you don’t get to decide that, his anger level ratcheting up about 5 notches. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“Funnily enough, no,” Jonny replies. “Sometimes, our relationship doesn’t have to be about you.” 

Patrick feels slapped, and Jonny’s condescendingly reasonable tone just makes it worse. He snaps, getting up in Jonny’s face, “What the hell are you talking about?” 

It’s not true, he thinks. Or is it true? He knows he’s struggled with this more than Jonny, but he doesn’t think he’s been selfish. How could Jonny say that?

Jonny hands go up between them. “Just give me a fucking break for once, Pat, things are hard enough for me already.” 

“Oh I know! Did you see tonight?” Patrick spits out. “You’re dragging us all down with you now.” 

Jonny’s face goes white. “Fuck. You.” 

“Fine!” Patrick shouts and then he’s crashing into Jonny, shoving at him, hands harsh on his shoulders, kissing him like he wants to kill him with it. Jonny makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat, stiffening up, even though he doesn’t push Patrick away. 

Patrick bites him and then the world is spinning and he’s being pinned to the boring dining room table neither of them picked out, because this is _not_ their home. He gasps, stunned, chest pressed to the wood. They’re both still in their gameday suits, and he scrabbles to get his belt undone. As soon as it’s free, Jonny yanks Patrick’s trousers and underwear down and pushes in close. His fly is still zipped, but Patrick feels his cock, hot and hard behind the fabric, brushing against him. It simultaneously settles something inside him and fills him with a rage he doesn’t know how to control.

Jonny spits on his fingers and then rubs them over Patrick’s hole, slowly working one in, even though they haven’t done this in a while, too busy and too tired for anal. Whenever they take a break, it’s always like the fucking first time all over again. 

“What, you just gonna fuck me right here?” Patrick demands. “Dry?” 

He growls when Jonny picks up Patrick’s own wallet off the floor and finds the foil packet of lube he keeps in there. He doesn’t know why he even bothers. Being spontaneous with their sex life isn’t really something they can do, being closeted famous athletes. But hope springs eternal. And it’s getting a use now anyway, because Jonny’s gonna take him right here, not even bothering to get the stuff Jonny always buys even though it’s way too expensive and they run through it so fast. ‘Not like we can’t afford it,’ Jonny had said when Patrick pointed this out. He’d been balls deep in Patrick, so he hadn’t exactly felt inclined to press the point. He shivers, remembering it, before being roughly jolted into the present, by Jonny tugging on his hips, pulling him back as he fits his slickened cock at his hole, just wet enough not to give Patrick rugburn as he drives in. Patrick jerks hard against the table, struggling for purchase against the glossy wood. 

“I hate you sometimes you know that?” Patrick snarls. And it’s not a lie. He’d bet anything Jonny feels the same way sometimes. That’s just part of their relationship—the arguments on the bench and on the ice. 

Jonny’s only reply is another strong thrust and a hand pressing down on Patrick’s back, keeping him bent over the table. It’s a lot, but oh fuck, it’s good. Jonny’s here with him in this moment now no matter what’s happening. He still wants Patrick. 

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” Patrick moans as Jonny pounds into his prostate, making him shake. It’s been a while since Jonny fucked him like that. Years maybe. He’s usually so careful of his strength, but he’s not being careful now as he drags Patrick back onto his cock, the table skidding an inch across the hardwood. 

Patrick can’t stop muttering imprecations at Jonny, trying to provoke some kind of response, but he gets nothing back, and eventually he’s just left groaning into his own bicep, melting right into it as Jonny fucks him harder than he maybe ever has. He jerks himself off and his palm is too dry on the vulnerable head of his cock, but he doesn’t care. His brain is a wash of white, fixated on one thing, the edge of pain just another part of this. 

Jonny comes with a soft sound—his only utterance since they started, and Patrick moans, because he feels the hot gush of it inside. And then Jonny pulls out and zips up and steps away. His dress shoes echo on the floor as he disappears deeper into the apartment. And Patrick is stunned a second time. Jonny would never do this to somebody, he can be a jackass, but he’s not cruel. 

Patrick slowly pushes himself up onto his elbows, eyes prickling. Oh fuck, maybe Patrick really has lost him. That Jonny would do this, just use him and then leave him like this is inconceivable. Patrick feels so alone. 

But then Jonny’s back, striding into the room like a man with a purpose. He lost his suit jacket and tie somewhere, and he’s holding the fancy too-expensive lube. Patrick gapes at him, the rollercoaster of emotion he’s been hurtling down making his breaths come fast. 

“Wha—” is all he gets out before Jonny’s spooning up behind him, arms around his waist, pulling Patrick down into Jonny’s lap on one of the chairs. His fingers are sloppy wet with lube, just the way Patrick likes, and when they close around his cock Patrick can’t help the high pitched moan that comes out of his chest. Sitting on Jonny’s lap, he’s taller, but he slumps down so he can drop his head to Jonny’s shoulder. 

Slowly, slowly, Jonny starts to pull him off, nose pressed to Patrick’s throat. He’s got his left hand on Patrick’s chest, right in the middle, keeping them close. It’s the softest, sweetest handjob Patrick’s ever received. By the end, he’s rolling his hips into Jonny’s grip, clutching at his forearm so tight Jonny will have a bracelet of bruises tomorrow. He finally comes with a sob, Jonny shushing him. 

They sit that way for a long time, even though he’s uncomfortably aware of the come leaking out of his ass, his own come spattered all over him, and the way it’s cold as an icebox and he’s naked from the waist down. He just needs a moment. Sue him. 

His voice comes out hoarse, choked up. “You haven’t fucked me like that in years.” 

“That’s the only way you wanted it when we were kids,” Jonny says softly. And obviously they've had fights before, many, it would be impossible for the two of them not to, but Jonny hasn't fucked the breath out of him in a long, long time. He must not have wanted to. 

Patrick drops his head. He had always demanded harder and faster. He didn’t want it to slide into anything sweet, anything that might let him forget that it was just a raw animal urge to fuck between them. That he could hope for anything better. He’d been so good at hurting himself back then, making things unnecessarily difficult. It was the only way he knew how to be. That Jonny stopped without Patrick ever noticing is as much a testament of how intertwined they are as anything else he could name. 

The words don’t come easy, but he traces a heart on the back of Jonny’s hand, knowing he’ll understand. 

“Ugh,” Patrick says, disentangling himself, he needs to get out of these disgusting clothes and take another shower. “You need to eat,” he prods. 

“I’ll put something together while you take a shower,” Jonny says. 

*

When Patrick comes out of the bathroom, Jonny’s lying on the couch in pajama pants, eating brown rice with guac and salsa, the TV on an old It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia episode. 

Patrick raises a brow. “You really don’t have any tastebuds left, do you?” 

“Makes it easier to swallow your come, so I don’t see why you’re complaining,” Jonny says, pointing at him with his fork as he sits down beside him. 

“Does that mean I get extra points for swallowing?” 

Jonny snorts. “Since you’re a spitter, the point is moot.” 

“But I do rim you, baby,” Patrick says, giving Jonny a onceover that would’ve made him blush back in the old days. 

“Gotta make it up to me somehow,” Jonny replies equably. 

Patrick ducks his head to kiss him, feeling inescapably fond. 

They crawl into bed that night a little battle-hardened, a little weary. Patrick drops off to sleep easily. 

He wakes up a few hours later to Jonny restlessly turning in the bed. Patrick’s exhausted, but he can’t stop the dull pain of alarm in his chest. Of course it couldn't be that easy. 

“Can’t sleep?” he mumbles, turning over. Jonny struggles with this. Sometimes he goes to the guest bedroom to sleep, it’s too precious a commodity for Patrick to get upset about it. The fact that Jonny even stayed in bed with him tonight says a lot. 

“What does it look like?” Jonny snaps, staring straight up at the ceiling with a belligerent expression. Patrick is too tired for this shit, he sighs into his pillow. Shooting a quick glance at him, Jonny seems to soften. “Sorry, just, don’t like the space in my head right now.” 

Patrick yawns and asks. “What’s going on?” 

Jonny doesn’t answer, his lips going tight, face drawn. And suddenly Patrick knows what it is. He said that Jonny was dragging them all down with him. 

“It’s not untrue, Jon,” Patrick breathes, shifting again in bed, trying to keep his eyes open. 

Jonny sucks in a breath, hands covering his eyes. If Patrick didn’t know better, he’d say Jonny was near to tears. It’s not Jonny’s fault and it’s not fair, but this is how the team has grown around them. They live and die by his example. He’s the ballast for them all. If Jonny isn’t there to shore them up, it doesn’t matter how good Patrick plays. He can’t carry the team by himself. He needs Jonny to get through this, for hockey, obviously, but also for them. He’s too tired to explain it, feels himself making it worse. 

“C’mon,” Patrick asks, changing the subject. They need to have a conversation about this, but maybe not when Patrick’s eyelids feel weighed down by stones. Not when he’s just gonna fuck it up worse. “You wanna? It’ll make you feel better.” 

Jonny huffs out a laugh. “We already did that.” 

“Mmhm.” Patrick nods sleepily. 

“You look ready to pass out,” Jonny points out. 

“So? It’s cool, I’ll drift off.” He was double-shifted all game, his arms hurt like hell, and he was fucked over their dining room table. He’s more than ready to fall asleep. 

Jonny laughs again. “You’re joking, right?” 

“ ‘still ready to go from earlier, you should if you wanna, it’ll feel good for me too, just tired,” he mumbles out, turning over so that Jonny can spoon him. "You need it."

At first he doesn’t think Jonny will do it. He’s a little disappointed, but also too sleepy to be all that bothered. But the bed shifts behind him as Jonny moves in close, an arm going around his waist. It takes barely anything to get his cock back in, Patrick blearily recognizes the welcome pressure and sighs deeply. 

“See, does feel good,” he says, mostly into his pillow. Jonny starts up with a few gentle rocking strokes, more dipping his cock in than anything else. If he says anything, Patrick doesn’t notice, drifting off back into sleep, pleasantly languorous in Jonny’s arms. 

*

It comes through in his dream. The thick cock in his ass, the glancing pressure across his prostate, his own cock unexpectedly hard, he feels it intensely, even though he’s dreaming of something else entirely. He wants to come so bad, and he doesn’t know why. What’s going on—he’s going to—he’s going to—

And then between breaths, he is, eyes snapping open, dick pulsing out what feels like endlessly all over the sheets while he gasps out in shock. It takes him a moment to understand what’s even happening, why he’s coming in bed in the middle of the night like he hasn’t since he was a fucking teenager, unable to stop the unfiltered moans spilling out of his mouth. He’s filled with amazement. Jonny’s not even touching his cock and he’s barely screwing in and out of Patrick. 

“Oh my god,” Patrick says, shuddering. His skin is buzzing all over and his hole keeps gripping at Jonny, contracting down tight, sending more sparks across his lids. “Oh fuck.” 

“Oh, jesus,” Jonny chokes out and then he’s pushing Patrick’s thigh up toward his chest, giving himself room to fuck in, thrusting in hard one last time, before coming himself. Patrick cranes his neck, reaching back behind him to draw Jonny into a kiss. He’s still shaking, skin still tingling when Jonny groans and then pulls out. They’re a fucking mess, his ass aches, Patrick doesn’t even care. They’ll deal with it tomorrow. 

“Missed you,” he says inanely against Jonny’s lips. It’s ridiculous. He’s been with Jonny this whole time. The only thing that was keeping them apart was the completely necessary act of slumber, but…

“I didn’t go anywhere,” Jonny tells him, heart beating hard against Patrick’s back, a steady reminder. 

“Yes you did,” Patrick says. He doesn’t have it in him to say more, about how Patrick worries, even though he knows it’s foolish. He just needs the moments like this to remind him. He'll explain in the morning. Exhaustion has again dropped on him like a ton of bricks. 

“Love you,” Jonny says, arm going back around his waist. His breathing evens out, and Patrick's own breaths feel lighter. He traces the back of Jonny’s hand. He's not awake to notice, but Patrick knows he gets it.


End file.
